The second was the weight. A heavy, warm arm draped possessively across your waist, pinning you to the mattress.

The third was the scent. A clean, expensive cologne mixed with something distinctly masculine, something that wasn't yours, clinging to the thousand-thread-count sheets.

You cracked your eyes open. The room was vast, all minimalist furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows, the Las Vegas sun blazing through the gaps in the charcoal-gray curtains. This was not your apartment.

A low, even breath ghosted against the back of your neck. You slowly, carefully, began to turn.